Born to Die
by Belladonna98
Summary: "I don't want to do this. I don't want to die." Twenty-four tributes. One victor. The Hunger Games have begun. (Klaine/Hunger Games AU)
1. The Reaping

** Title: **_Born to Die_

**Pairing:** Klaine, plus some mentions of others

**Genre:** Adventure/Romance/Drama/Angst

**Rating:** T, for character death, violence, and some language

**A/N:** This is a Klaine/Hunger Games crossover AU. It features Kurt, Blaine, and many of the other Glee characters.

**Official disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or _The Hunger Games._ If I did, that'd be pretty freaking cool.

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**PART ONE: The Volunteer**

"_Choose your last words, this is the last time. 'Cause you and I, we were born to die."_ –Lana Del Rey, "Born to Die"

**Chapter One… The Reaping**

I stare at the blank ceiling above me. It's plain white, nothing too exciting; yet I can't stop eyeing it. Mostly because it distracts me from thoughts of the reaping.

A small sigh escapes my lips, and I push the blanket off, swinging my legs off the side of the bed. There's just enough light in the room to see that Dad is still sound asleep in his bed. I pull on some clothes and grab my forage bag. I take a look at myself in the small mirror on the kitchen counter, quickly fix my hair, pull on my scuffed-up boots, and walk out the door. I look at the dull grey houses in our part of town, otherwise known as the Seam.

Luckily, our house is near the edge of the Seam, so it doesn't take long to arrive at the fence that separates the Meadow, a dry patch of grass, from the woods. The fence is tall, topped with barbed wire, and electrified—or it's supposed to be, but we're lucky if we get just two to three hours of electricity each day, so most of the time, it isn't running. Even so, I strain my ears to hear any sign of the familiar buzz, just to be sure. Nothing. I lie down on the ground and wiggle my way through a two-foot chink that's been there for years.

Once I am safely concealed by the trees, I walk over to a hollow log and take out my sai swords. My dad has had these for as long as I can remember, and he taught me to use them at a very young age. At first, it was difficult to master using the small, dagger-like blades, but now, it's like they are simply an extension of my own arms.

I walk through the dense trees for a while until I reach the top of a small hill. A tall, muscular boy with short brown hair is waiting there with his arms folded across his chest impatiently—David Karofsky.

"Hey," I say.

He turns to look at me. "Hey," he replies.

"Catch anything interesting this morning?" I ask.

"Not really. Unless you count a few squirrels. The animals haven't really been out today."

I sigh. Maybe they know what day it is, too.

"We could try catching some fish," I suggest.

He nods, and we head toward the lake. There's a moment of silence. Then,

"Oh, by the way—Happy Hunger Games!" Dave exclaims, clapping his hands together excitedly.

I laugh and say, "That was a _terrible_ imitation of a Capitol accent."

Dave pouts. "Was not."

A smile spreads across my lips at his childish tone of voice.

"Um, yes. Yes, it was," I respond.

Dave comes to a stop, placing his finger to his chin in thought. "Well… then _really_ you're saying that my horrible imitation was better than even the most Capitol-y accent of all Capitol accents. Since, you know, they're just terrible in the first place."

I raise an eyebrow, and suddenly, we dissolve into fits of laughter.

"Whatever, you idiot," I say. Then I place my hands together and put on _my_ best imitation of a Capitol accent. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

Dave chuckles at that, because mocking the District Twelve escort is the closest we can come to finding humor in this day. Then we stop because we both know that for some poor child, the odds really _won't_ be in their favor, not today.

We continue onward in silence.

After a few hours, we have a good load of food. A few squirrels, a rabbit, some strawberries, and about a dozen fish. I hide my sai swords back in the hollow log, and we set off to start trading. First, we stop by the Hob, the black market where people come to trade for different things. After talking with a few of the regulars, we manage to get a loaf of bread, some salt, and a few apples.

Next, we go to the back door of the mayor's house. Sugar, the mayor's daughter, answers.

"Oh, hey, Kurt. Hello, David."

"Hey, Sugar," I say, and I notice the fancy blue dress she's wearing. It has a top decorated with circular patterns almost like scales, and the bottom half is feathery—along with her straightened hair and silver high heels, it's a perfect dress for the reaping. "I like your outfit," I say while handing her the basket of strawberries.

She smiles and cheerily replies, "Well, I _do_ want to look my best. Today is a very big day, after all."

Dave glares at her.

"At least you won't have to face the possibility of being chosen for another year," he growls.

Sugar purses her lips at him. "Don't talk to me like that. At least _you_ won't have to face the possibility of being chosen _ever again_ after today," she snaps furiously, then she looks back at me, and she lets out a sigh. She hands me the money for the strawberries.

"Thanks," I say.

She smiles sweetly. "You're welcome, Kurt. Good luck."

Dave keeps on glaring at her as she shuts the door, and we walk back to the Seam in silence.

I don't like that he spoke to Sugar that way, especially when it's not really her fault, but… he's right. Two boys will be chosen this year, and next year it'll be two girls. It alternates between boys and girls every year, as it's the Capitol's way of 'being generous' to the potential tributes; they thought that if one gender didn't have to face the reaping for a year, it would be considered nice in our eyes.

I scoff at the thought, shaking my head.

Once we're outside the Seam, Dave and I divide the rest of the food that's left.

"Well, I guess I'll see you later," Dave says, giving me a half-smile.

I nod. "Meet by the lake afterward?" I ask.

Dave gathers up his share of the food and starts walking away. "Like always, Sparkles."

I glare at him. "Once again, I didn't mean to dump the whole packet of sparkles on you! It was my first day of arts and crafts!" I yell after him, but he just disappears around the street corner, laughing his head off.

I roll my eyes, thinking of that day in first grade. We were making posters of what we thought the Capitol looked like, and the teacher made the mistake of giving us a packet of sparkles to take home. I was so excited that I tried to open the packet while I was walking down the school hallway, and, well… let's just say the whole thing exploded on Dave and me. And that was _before_ we actually became friends, so it was all the more embarrassing.

I make my way back to the house and step inside. My father is dressed up in his nice clothes, trying his best to prepare a meal at the stove.

"Oh, hey, Kurt. Just making us some lunch before we go to the town square," he says, and he gestures to the bowl of stew.

"Okay," I say, storing the food away in one of the kitchen cupboards. "I'm going to go wash up."

I head to the bathroom, tossing my game bag next to the door. I strip down and quickly get in the wash tub, scrubbing all the grime and dirt off of my body. When I'm done, I notice one of Dad's old reaping outfits laying out on my bed. I change into the nice dress shirt and pants, checking myself in the mirror; after a few adjustments to my hair, I actually look quite handsome.

My dad and I eat a quick lunch in silence and start walking to the town square at a quarter till one o'clock. Neither of us can speak. We're too afraid of what might happen later on.

As we are walking, I feel a slight tug at my sleeve. I look back to see a pale, thin boy with sandy brown hair standing behind me. I stop walking and turn to face him, embracing him in a tight hug.

"Rory," I mumble. "I was wondering where you were."

He pulls away and forces a weak smile.

"Just getting ready for the reaping," he says in a small voice.

We start walking alongside one another with Dad just a few steps ahead. My mind starts to wander to the day that I met Rory.

After my mother died, Dad fell into a deep depression and was unable to take care of himself for a while. He struggled in work, he barely made any money—we were starving, until one day, outside the bakery… something happened, and I realized that I needed to start helping out, too. I would go out into the woods with my sai swords and try to catch a few small animals, using the training my dad had given me when I was younger. For a while, that was our only source of food, but then I realized I could forage for plants and berries, I could go fishing, I could trade around at the Hob. Things started getting better, and about a year later, I even met one of the other Seam boys while I was out hunting. It was Dave, setting up some of his traps and snares, and of course, we were hesitant of each other at first—me because Dave was one of the boys who used to bully me when we were younger, and Dave because technically, he was breaking the law by being out there—but then one day, Dave apologized for the way he used to treat me, and I showed him the best spot to hunt game. And that's how we began hunting together, though it still took a long time to trust him.

But there was one day when Dave was busy taking care of his mother, who was feeling ill, and I was out hunting alone. I was sharpening my sais when suddenly, I heard something that most definitely wasn't a squirrel. At first I thought it might be a deer, but the footsteps were too heavy. Then a small, thin face appeared from behind a tree trunk, and I leapt to my feet in shock.

"Who are you?" I demanded, holding my sais up threateningly.

He shrunk back behind the trunk, a look of terror in his eyes. I rushed over and held one of the blades against his neck while simultaneously poking the other into his chest. I realize now that I was overreacting, but I didn't want to risk anyone besides Dave seeing me out there; I had to be sure this boy wouldn't tell anyone.

"Who are you?" I repeated.

He started to tremble.

"M-my name is Rory. Rory Flanagan," he said in a small, shaky voice.

I noticed the foreign way in which he spoke and raised an eyebrow. "Why do you have an accent?" I asked, even though that probably should have been the least of my concerns.

He looked at me for a moment. "Um… I th-think some of my ancestors came from an island in the-the east."

I paused, surveying his appearance. He definitely didn't look like he was from the Seam, with pale skin and light blue eyes, but why would a boy from town look so thin and gaunt?

"Why were you following me?" I asked.

He immediately answered, "My family. We're st-starving. My mom works, but she barely makes enough to feed _herself,_ let alone my sister and me. And-and I noticed you came in here a lot, so I thought… well, I thought maybe I could help you—with trading or hunting or-or whatever it is that you do."

I glared at him for a long moment, considering his offer. I _would_ need help setting up a few of the snares…

Finally, I lowered my sais.

"Fine. I guess you can help me hunt—but _only_ for today. And if you so much as make one sound to scare away game, you're gone," I threatened.

His eyes flashed with relief as he nodded fervently.

After that, he followed me around the woods as I hunted, observing silently. And at the end of the day, we sat beside the lake deep in the woods, eating a small dinner together.

"Are you from the Seam?" I asked.

He took a bite of the fish we caught earlier.

"Yeah. My mom and my sister Sheena and I all live together, in one of the houses closer to town," he said.

I looked over at him, hesitant to ask the question that was just on the tip of my tongue. I noticed he didn't mention a dad…

He turned to look at me, his blue eyes shining with grief. "Dad, he… he died in the mine explosion four years ago," he said quietly, looking back down at the ground.

The huge mine explosion that killed so many men… My father would have been one of them had he not fallen terribly ill that week. He was confined to his bedroom, sweating and throwing up and completely unable to move; I was so thankful when he finally started to recover. Another week, and he felt well enough to get back to work, helping rebuild the burnt-down and destroyed mine shafts. That's when my mother started showing symptoms of the same sickness, though, and unfortunately, she was not as lucky as my father—she passed away after six extremely long and excruciating days.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," I muttered.

Rory managed a weak smile, and for the rest of our very small meal, we remained in a comfortable silence.

Once we finished, we gathered all the food that we had caught and headed back toward the Meadow. There, he tried to walk away with only a small bag of greens and some berries, but I stopped him and gave him half of the rest of the food. He looked at me with questioning eyes, looking down at the food and then back up at me.

"Why… why are you giving me so much? I didn't even really help you," he said, looking off to the side guiltily.

I shrugged and said, "You need it."

There was a pause.

"Thank you. For everything," Rory said quietly.

And without any hesitation, I flashed him one my biggest and brightest smile.

"No problem."

And ever since then, we've spent almost every day with each other, whether he would be helping Dave and me hunt or just sitting with me by the lake. He and Dave are the only two people in the world that I trust just as much as my dad.

And the only day I don't see very much of either of them is reaping day.

I look over at Rory, who is trembling something terrible. I wrap my arm around the slender fourteen-year-old's shoulders and pull him closer to me.

"Don't worry, Rory, your name's only been in there three times. They're not going to pick you," I say consolingly. "I promise."

All he can do is nod meekly in return.

Pain tugs at my heart. What would I do if Rory were picked? How could I possibly survive witnessing his death on live television?

My stomach starts to feel heavy as we reach the square. People are filing in, all with the same grim look upon their faces, and hundreds of cameras are perched on every rooftop. I close my eyes for a moment and try to imagine I'm in the woods, just another normal day with Rory—but it doesn't work. Of course it doesn't.

The two of us sign in. All of the twelve- through eighteen-year-olds are then herded into roped areas marked off by age with the oldest in front and the youngest in back. Parents are surrounding the perimeter, clinging to one another and weeping.

I look at the other seventeen-year-old boys around me. Some of them exchange looks of empathy with others, but most keep to themselves, too afraid to look away from the stage set before the Justice Building. On it stands three chairs, a podium, and one large glass bowl that holds all of the boys' names. Twenty of which have the name _Kurt Hummel_ written on them. This is because of tesserae, a system in which you put your name into the reaping more times in exchange for a meager supply of rice, salt, and oil.

Two of the three chairs are filled by Sugar Motta's father (the mayor of District Twelve), and Terri Del Monico, the upbeat District 12 escort with her strawberry blonde hair, ocean blue pantsuit, six-inch heels, and lively eyes. The two are having a hushed conversation.

The mayor finally steps up to the podium when the clocks strike two. He tells the same story as every other year. The history of Panem, how we rose up from the debris of a country once called North America. Wars and disasters had plagued the land, and the result was Panem. It was split into thirteen prosperous districts run by the Capitol. Then came the Dark Days when the districts rebelled against the Capitol. In the end, only twelve of the original thirteen survived, and the Treaty of Treason was created to give us laws that would guarantee peace.

And as a yearly reminder that the Dark Days are to never be repeated, we got the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Games are very simple. To ensure that there are no more uprisings, each of the twelve districts must provide either two boys or two girls (each district alternates which two they must provide, and this results in there being twelve boys and twelve girls each year) ranging from twelve to eighteen-years-old, called tributes. They are forced to compete in an outdoor arena that could be anything from a broiling desert to a glacial wasteland, and they all have to fight to the death, until there is only one left standing. That person will then be declared the winner.

And there's not a thing we can do about it. We are completely and totally at the Capitol's mercy, and this is their way of reminding us. And as if all that weren't bad enough, they force us to treat it like it's some kind of amazing _celebration._ The winner goes around the other eleven districts shoving it in our faces during the Victory Tour, and afterward, they get to move into the Victor's Village and be showered with lots of gifts, even such delicacies as sugar.

"It is a time for repentance and thanks," says the mayor.

I look back up. He then proceeds to read the list of past victors from District 12. There are exactly three. Only one is still alive—William Schuester, a middle-aged man who is now the town drunk.

Speaking of him, the man stumbles onto the stage and collapses into the third empty chair, holding a bottle of vodka and shouting incoherent things at the audience. The mayor looks upset, and I don't blame him. Everyone in Panem must be watching right now, laughing and making fun of us.

Quickly, Terri takes the podium and gives her familiar, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" in order to get everything back on track.

She starts talking about how pleased she is to be here again, but it's obvious she hates District 12; she looks at all of us as if we were cockroaches beneath her designer heels.

I look across the crowd to see Dave, and we give each other a small grin. No doubt we're both thinking about how annoying Terri is. But then I look back up at the huge glass ball filled with paper slips and am reminded that he has just as many slips as I do, if not more. It is entirely possible that he could be one of the tributes this year.

It is entirely possible that _I_ could be a tribute.

"Well, let's get started, shall we? I believe we are choosing two gentlemen this year."

Time seems to slow down as she walks over to the glass ball with the boys' names. She reaches in to grab a slip of paper with her perfectly manicured hand, and her high heels _click-clack_ against the stage in the complete silence as she walks back to the microphone. I start to tremble, and I feel like throwing up.

She slowly opens the tiny slip of paper and reads out the name so that all of Panem will hear who the first boy tribute for this year's Hunger Games will be.

"Rory Flanagan."

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**A/N: **All right, so there is a lot to explain here. First of all, hi! To those of you who don't know me, I am Belladonna98, and this is a story I've been planning and writing for a really long time. I'm so excited to finally be posting; I know this is only the first chapter, and there isn't really any action yet, but I hope you guys are enjoying so far!

And speaking of chapters, I just want you guys to know that I will generally try to update on Saturdays. This leaves a whole week for me to edit the next chapter, and plus, it'll give you guys a chance to ask questions about the story. If you're confused or you'd like for me to expand on something I said or you're just curious, I am willing to answer any questions you have. You know, as long as they don't spoil anything. :) And if you have a tumblr, check out my profile for a link to my blog, and you can ask questions there as well!

Also, I'm going to be putting little fun facts at the end of each chapter, usually about what I was originally planning to write for that chapter that later got changed. So if you're interested, check those out at the end of each chapter! Here's fun fact number one:

**Fun Fact:** In the very, _very_ first drafts of this chapter, there was no Rory, and Kurt was just reaped instead. I later changed it because I believe the kind of bond that Katniss and Prim had was very important to the story, and I needed Kurt to have that kind of deep, familial love for someone.

Okay, that's all. Thanks for reading, and I'll try to get the second chapter up soon!


	2. The Boy with the Bowtie

**A/N:** Aha! Technically, in my time zone, I made the deadline of updating on Saturday. So yeah, don't judge me. :)

I would have put the chapter up earlier, but first of all, I was still editing, and second of all, I was going through some of my picture folders, and I got really, _really_ distracted. Anyway, after a long week, here's Chapter 2!

**EDIT:** I was going through this chapter, and I realized I made a lot of mistakes! They weren't very noticeable, but I went through and changed them. Sorry about that!

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**Chapter Two… The Boy with the Bowtie**

My heart stops. I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't move.

It's Rory. He's been chosen. His name was only in there _three times,_ and out of thousands of other names, he was chosen. Rory, the sweet and innocent fourteen-year-old who's so pale and thin and _weak_. The one who wouldn't survive the first five minutes of the Games.

He's going to die.

I start to tremble again. He can't die, he just _can't._ I don't think I would have survived my mother's death if I hadn't had him around. He's one of the only good things in my life.

He can't die.

I finally catch sight of him, paler than ever, slowly walking toward the stage. The sight makes me come to my senses.

I push past the other seventeen-year-olds, just as he's climbing the steps to Terri Del Monico's eager face.

"Rory!" I cry, desperately trying to stop him from walking onto that stage. "Rory!"

He turns, his eyes reflecting fear. I reach out for him, but the Peacekeepers stop me, and when I try to push past them, they grab my arms and begin hauling me away. I need to reach Rory, though—I can't let him go!

"I volunteer!" I scream. "I volunteer as tribute!"

The Peacekeepers stop in their tracks, and everyone falls silent.

In some other districts, people are eager to volunteer, as winning is a huge honor. There are even schools that specifically train children for the Games, starting as soon as they can walk. But this is District 12. No one in District 12 has _ever_ volunteered to take the place of someone in the Games before, and Rory isn't even a member of my family.

I've shocked everybody.

The Peacekeepers step aside, giving me just enough room to run to Rory and pull him into my arms.

"No," he murmurs, bunching his fists into the back of my shirt. "No. You can't…"

I cling to him for a moment, unable to stop the tears that slide down my cheeks. Then I remember that this is being broadcast on live television, so I let go and look down at him with urgency. "I'm sorry, Rory. Just go find your mom, okay? Find your mom and your sister. Everything will be fine, I promise."

I shouldn't have said that, because it sets him off. He starts hitting me, his fists striking my chest and arms over and over. "How will it be _fine_?" he yells as the Peacekeepers peel him off of me and begin carrying his struggling form away. "Let me go! No! _No!_ Kurt, _don't do this_!"

He continues to scream and fight, but it's no use. They take him out of the town square. I swallow, watching as the small figure of Dave pushes his way through the eighteen-year-olds and runs after them. That's good. Maybe he'll be able to calm Rory down.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath, lifting my sleeve to wipe the tears away.

_Be strong,_ I remind myself, and I turn toward the stage, walking up the dark grey steps.

Terri Del Monico looks absolutely thrilled at all of this. She reaches out a hand, taking mine in hers, and looks at me excitedly as I take my place next to her.

"A volunteer! My, my, my, what a turn of events for this district!" she exclaims, clasping our hands together. Then she turns to look at me. "What's your name, dear?"

I look out at the crowd, catching a glimpse of my appearance on the huge television screens.

"Kurt Hummel."

There's a beat of silence. Terri looks at me with curiosity.

"Hummel? So, you're not that boy's brother?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"So… how are you related to him, then?"

"I'm not." My voice sounds cold, almost dead.

She laughs. "Oh, I understand. You don't want him to be the one taking all the glory, eh?" Terri nudges me with her elbow, letting out a soft chuckle. "Well, that's the spirit of the Games! Thank you, Kurt Hummel, for showing the kind of patriotic spirit that has often been somewhat lacking in this district."

I nod. If I say anything, I'm afraid I might start laughing at the absurdity of this whole thing.

"Well, everyone, why don't we give a big round of applause for our first male tribute?"

She turns to the crowd with expectant eyes, but it doesn't surprise me that no one claps. Complete silence is their only act of defiance against the Capitol, their only way of showing them that all of this is wrong.

What does surprise me, though, is when one of the fourteen-year-old boys presses the first three fingers of his left hand to his lips and reaches out to me, a gesture in our district that means goodbye to someone you love. First him, then another, and then everyone else. Everyone in the entire crowd, even the surrounding parents, is reaching out to me.

I never really thought that the people of District Twelve noticed me much. In fact, I know they didn't—but they noticed Rory. They would have been absolutely heartbroken if they had had to see such a sweet and innocent boy die on those screens. And now, he won't have to face that, because of me.

They are thanking me for it. They _respect_ me for it.

I'm on the verge of crying again when someone wraps an arm around my shoulders. The strong scent of alcohol fills my nostrils, and I just about gag.

"I like this one!" William Schuester exclaims drunkenly from beside me. "Got lots of… fire!"

I wince, his grip tightening. Then he stumbles forward and, just as he's about to say something else, trips off the stage and falls to the dirt below. As he lies sprawled on the ground, I wonder if he managed to kill himself. A low moan escapes from him, however, followed by a low, guttural snore. He's fallen asleep.

A low murmur breaks out in the crowd as a pair of good citizens carry the drunken idiot away on a stretcher. Terri, trying to get control of the situation again, chuckles nervously.

"Well," she says, "this has certainly been an exciting day! But we still have another tribute to choose, so, let's get on with it. Shall we?"

She crosses back over to the glass ball and quickly picks a slip of paper before walking back over to the microphone. She's eager to finish this.

But time seems to slow down again as she tears open the seal on the paper. I shut my eyes, hoping beyond hope that it's not Dave.

"Blaine Anderson."

_Oh, thank god,_ I think, because now, Dave is safe for the rest of his life.

But Blaine Anderson… I know that name. I scan the sixteen-year-olds until I find him—stocky build, small in height, curly dark brown hair that has been severely gelled down. Slow and shaky, he starts the walk up to the stage, and I can see the shock in his eyes, though he fights to keep his expression neutral.

"Come on, dear!" Terri trills, holding out her hand to him.

He climbs the stone steps, and she takes his hand, as well as mine. She smiles at the cameras and asks, "Anyone else in the mood to volunteer today?"

She titters at her own joke, but the crowd remains silent. I am thankful for that.

"I do have an older brother," Blaine says quietly, looking down at his shoes. "But he's too old for the Games now."

I've seen Blaine's older brother sometimes, in the bakery and occasionally around town. And I've seen how he treats Blaine.

_He wouldn't volunteer for you even if he could_, I want to say, but of course, I don't.

The mayor has started reading the Treaty of Treason, but I don't pay any attention. I'm too distracted. Thinking about Blaine Anderson has brought up a flood of emotional memories—I mean, it strange. He's not my friend, we've never really had an actual conversation. But for years now he has been on my mind, a heavy weight on my heart.

It happened about a year after my mother died. I was nine years old, and I couldn't figure out what to do about my dad. Everybody said our grief would become less painful as time wore on, and that we would gradually be able to get back to our lives, but that didn't seem to be true for Dad. He would just lie in bed, her picture clutched tightly in his hand. If I didn't set out any food for him, most of the time he wouldn't even _eat_—he would just stare at that picture until he fell asleep, as though if he just concentrated enough, if he just wished a little harder, she would come back to us. I had to drag him out of bed in the mornings and physically _force_ him to go to work, and sometimes, I couldn't even do _that._ We had nothing to trade for food, and I was getting desperate. The mayor had given us a small bag of the tesserae rice, since Dad used to trade and do business with him, but that had run out a few days earlier. We were starving, and I had no idea what to do.

I was walking home from school one day in the late winter, dreading going back to the house; and across the street, I saw a group of boys and girls playing some sort of game with each other. They would link hands in a circle, chant something as they skipped around, then fall on their backs, giggling and shouting with delight.

Something tugged at my heart as I watched them. As a Seam boy, I'd been marked as an outcast among my peers, so no one ever wanted to play with me. I'd never even had a friend, not until I met Dave and Rory two years later.

I let out a sigh, ignoring the empty feeling in my chest as I hurriedly continued onward.

Suddenly needing a change, though, I decided to take a shortcut behind some of the town shops. There was a path back there, hidden by trees, that led to the Seam and wasn't very well-known; sometimes I'd take that route instead of my usual one if I needed to be isolated for a while. My boots scraped against the icy dirt road as I quickly scurried across someone's backyard, running into the familiar green cluster of trees. The empty feeling in my chest had been overpowered by the empty feeling in my stomach, and I checked the tree branches as I passed through, looking for any fruit that might somehow still be clinging there, but the branches were cold and bare. Of course they were—even if any fruit had managed to survive the harvest, it would have been found long before by somebody else. I was hardly the only one in District 12 desperate for something to eat.

Little snowflakes began to sprinkle down around me, and I pulled my thin jacket tighter against my body, praying that it wouldn't get any colder before I made it home.

After a few more minutes, the empty feeling in my stomach suddenly tightened into a sharp pain. I ignored it at first, but the pain kept growing, and soon I began trembling and my vision became blurry. It became harder and harder to walk, and finally, I came to a stop, sliding down to the ground against a tree trunk and clutching at my abdomen.

A deep fear gripped me like an icy snake coiling around my body. What if this was the end? Was this really what dying felt like? I mean, it was true I hadn't eaten much in the past week, but could starvation really kill someone so quickly? Or was this something else, like the burst appendix that had killed one of Dad's miner friends a few years back?

My vision started to go black, and I knew I'd be passing out soon. I just hoped that whatever happened to me, my dad would be able to pull himself out of his grief and depression. I wanted him to be happy, even if I was dead.

Vaguely, I heard some crunching noises, but I didn't actually realize someone was approaching me until a tall shadow appeared in front of me. I forced my gaze upward to see a young boy standing there.

"Hey," he said in a small voice. "Are you okay?"

I blinked a couple of times, forcing myself to focus. This boy… I'd seen him before. Yes, in school. He was a year younger than me, but he was in my languages class. What was he doing here?

I opened my mouth to respond, but then he crouched down next to me and began to examine my appearance.

"You don't look so good… Here, take this," he said after a moment, and he shoved something into my hands.

I looked down to find a round loaf of bread in my lap, and I gazed back up at him with questioning eyes. I was speechless.

The boy smiled a little.

"You need it more than we do," he said, and I realized he was talking about the bakery. His dad ran the only bakery in town, and the whole family worked there. I wasn't sure what this boy's job was because I hardly ever got the chance to go inside, but I remember the few times that I'd stop and stare into the display window. Everything there always looked so delicious… I never thought I would be able to taste any of it, though.

The boy stood back up at that moment and began to turn around, so I quickly shoved the bread back in his hands. I couldn't take this. I didn't even know why he gave it to me in the first place.

He shook his head and gingerly handed it back, his bright hazel eyes shining with kindness.

"Please take it. I don't want you to starve," he said. He stepped back, out of my reach, and stared at me for another brief moment before turning and running off.

I stared after his retreating figure for a long time, unmoving. Mainly because I still felt like I might be dying, but also because I was in a state of shock. No one gives up food in District 12, not even the rich people who live in town. You hold onto the food you have, unless you're trading it for something. But this boy hadn't asked for anything at all. He hadn't even told me who he was.

I bit my lip and looked down at the loaf. Maybe it wasn't as warm or as fresh as their bread usually looked, but it smelled amazing. I broke off a small piece and brought it up to my nose. The scent when I inhaled was rich and thick—so much better than the crusty, mold-spotted bread we usually had to eat. I even felt a little better, just from inhaling the aroma, and I let out a sigh and took a bite. I was right, it wasn't freshly-baked, but it was still the best thing I'd ever tasted. I felt like I could easily have gobbled up the whole loaf right there, but no way was I going to waste this precious gift. I shoved the bread inside my jacket and pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the pain shooting through my stomach as I made my way back home.

That night, I sat with my dad in his bed and we ate a few pieces of the bread. I was hesitant at first, but eventually, I told him what had happened, and he broke down crying. He told me he was sorry, that he'd been selfish and weak in the past months. He promised to do better by me, then he told me the story of how he and my mother met, a story I'd heard many times but never failed to enjoy.

And it was the best night we'd had in a long, long time.

The next day as I was walking to school (after making sure Dad ate a good breakfast and went off to work—he really _was_ trying to do better) I noticed that it was starting to warm up a bit, especially compared to the cold, snowy days that had filled the past few months. I sat down in the school courtyard by the white picket fence and began to nibble on a small piece of the bread that I'd brought with me. Then I scanned the kids until I found the boy who had helped me. He was playing a game with his friends, but I took no notice of that; instead, I found myself staring at the bowtie around his neck. It was striped diagonally with colors of red, white, navy blue, and grey, and it looked strangely cute on him.

And I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't even realize he had noticed me looking and was staring back at me until he smiled. Then I looked down, embarrassed. But that smile filled me with joy.

From that moment on, he became the boy with the bowtie, and I've never forgotten how he helped me that day. He might have saved my life—it sure felt like it. And it feels like he saved my dad's life, too. Blaine Anderson gave me hope with that single loaf of bread.

_And he's the reason that I was able to save Rory today_, I think.

That thought brings my mind screeching back to the present. My throat starts to constrict, Rory's screams echoing in my head. I can barely breathe, and tears threaten to spill over; but luckily, at that moment, the mayor finishes the Treaty of Treason and gestures for Blaine and me to shake hands. We do as told, but I make sure to avoid his gaze.

Then Terri grabs ahold of our hands and holds them up high above our heads. She shouts something, and the anthem of Panem begins to ring throughout the square, but I can't register any of it. I keep thinking about how the boy with the bowtie saved my life that day… and how, not many days from now, he will be trying to take it away again.

_Unless I kill him first_.

The anthem ends, and some Peacekeepers take us away from the stage and into the Justice Building. They usher me into a lavish room inside, with wooden walls and beautiful velvet chairs. I sit down in one of them and immediately sink into it, running a hand through my hair in exhaustion.

The next hour is going to be brutal. Tributes are allowed a certain amount of time with loved ones to say goodbye, and I don't know if I'll be able to hold myself together. Rory, Dave, my dad_…_ I'm not sure I _can_ say goodbye to them.

That's when I hear a muffled voice just outside the room that says, "You have five minutes," and then the door swings open to reveal Rory.

I jump to my feet, preparing for the tears that are sure to come as he walks up to embrace me.

An instant later, and I'm back in the chair, my chest aching from his vicious shove.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking, Kurt?!" he yells.

I look at him in shock.

"I… You don't swear," I say dumbly, because I can't think of anything else to say.

"Oh, I don't? Well, pardon me, I think I'm entitled to say a goddamn swear word at the moment!"

"Okay, okay, it was just… surprising," I reply.

"Gah, you are such an _idiot,_ Kurt! Why did you volunteer for me?! How could you do that?!" he shouts, and he turns and storms away from me. Then he spins back around. "You _promised_ me, Kurt. You promised they wouldn't pick me."

"I know," I say, hanging my head. "I'm sorry about that—"

"I'm not done!" he snaps. "You promised me, and then I got picked anyway, and now you… you're… You weren't supposed to _do_ this! We agreed, we _all_ agreed that if one of us ever got reaped, the others wouldn't volunteer for them!"

I frown. What is he talking about?

And then the memory comes back to me, and I wince. He's referring to the day two years ago when he and Dave and I were sitting by the lake, a few days before that year's reaping. We were talking about what it would feel like to be one of the ones chosen, and Dave said that if I was chosen, he would volunteer for me. That just seemed like such a horrible thought, my best friend willingly going into the Hunger Games just to save me, and I immediately made both of them promise that if any of us were ever chosen in the reaping, the other two would _not_ volunteer for them. After all, we all had families that we needed to take care of, and we couldn't afford to sacrifice ourselves if we didn't have to.

But today, actually being faced with the reality of losing Rory to the Games… there was just no other option for me.

"I just… couldn't do it. I couldn't let you go up to that stage," I say. "I'm sorry, Rory, but you're like my own flesh and blood. If I let you go up there, I'd never be able to forgive myself."

"And how do you think _I_ feel?!" he shouts furiously.

His whole body starts to tremble at that, and I get to my feet, embracing him tightly as he starts to sob. He buries his face in my chest. I shut my eyes.

This is the last time I'll ever see him.

I quickly pull away and place my hands on his shoulders, looking him straight in the eye.

"Listen, Rory. I'm sorry for doing this, but we can't do anything about how things are now, and we don't have a lot of time. So I need you to listen to me."

He sniffles and nods, wiping his eyes.

"You are _not_ to take tesserae—I don't want you putting your name in any more times than you have to. Just keep hunting with Dave, and let him handle all of the trading; you only worry about the food your family needs. And try not to get into any trouble, because… because I'm not going to be here to protect you anymore. Do you understand?"

He nods furiously, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"I just… what the hell am I supposed to do without you, Kurt? This wasn't supposed to happen. You weren't supposed to do this. We were supposed to be okay," he whispers, tears streaming from his eyes again.

"I know. I'm sorry, Rory. I'm so, so sorry." I know I already said this, but really, what else can I say? I shouldn't have said those things, I shouldn't have _lied_ to him and told him things would be fine when I had no idea what was going to happen.

I pull him back to me and rest my chin on top of his head. He half-heartedly punches me in the shoulder, trying to act like he's getting angry again, but I can tell that he's falling apart just as much as I am. I begin to stroke his hair, a gesture that my mother used to do whenever I was upset, and he throws his arms around me, clinging like his life depends on it.

Then he pulls back and reaches into his pocket, holding something out to me in the palm of his hand.

"Here. It was my father's," he says hoarsely.

I look down to see what's in his hand. It's a circular gold pin of a mockingjay in flight. A rather beautiful piece of jewelry, if you like that sort of thing. I was never much for decorative pins, but this. This has just become my most treasured possession.

Tears sting at my eyes again.

"Thank you, Rory, this means a lot," I whisper. "I'll keep it with me. For the rest of my life," I say, because we both know that 'the rest of my life' just became a much shorter time than either of us ever wanted.

Rory seems to understand, and he looks away. Then he looks back at me, straight into my eyes. "Promise me that you'll win, Kurt. Please."

I look down. "You know that's not—"

"No." The forcefulness of his voice surprises me. "No, Kurt, I _don't_ know it's not possible. You can do it, I _know_ you can do it—so you promise me you _will _do it."

I press my lips together. A seventeen-year-old boy from _District 12_ winning the Hunger Games? I mean, I know Will Schuester was only sixteen when he won, but… I'm just me. I'm not strong or fast or extremely clever. How could _I_ win?

But looking into Rory's eyes, I know I can't tell him this. He believes in me—he really, _truly_ believes in me. And I can't bear to hurt him any more than I already have. So I'll try. I'll try to win these impossible Games.

"I promise," I say, gripping his shoulder.

The door opens up, and a Peacekeeper stands framed in the opening, gesturing to us that our time is up. I pull Rory to me for one final hug, but more Peacekeepers enter the room and yank him out of my arms, hauling him away.

"You'll be okay, Rory, I promise!" I shout frantically. "Remember what I said! And _stay alive!"_

"I will, Kurt! You too, you have to win, you have to come back—"

Except then the door slams shut, and Rory is gone.

I cover my face with my hands. I'll never see him again.

Then the door opens again, this time slowly, almost shyly. My father steps inside. His eyes are shining with grief and sorrow and emptiness, the same look he wore after my mother's death.

"Kurt," he chokes out.

Tears start to spill again as I reply, "Dad."

He rushes over and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug, and I don't hesitate to return it. I feel like a small child who has just had a terrible nightmare, and I let myself stay like that for a moment.

But then I pull away, a serious look in my eyes.

"Dad, you can't let go again, okay?" I say quickly and urgently, because I _need_ him to understand. "You have to find a way to feed yourself, I'll even ask Dave to catch you some game, just… please. Don't let yourself disappear again. Don't die because of me."

He gives me a sad smile, gripping my shoulder.

"I won't, Kurt. Don't worry about me," he says, then his eyes start to water as he looks me over, almost as if he were committing my image to memory. "Kurt… I'm sorry for everything I put you through after you mother died. I never meant to do that to you, it was awful, I… it…" He wipes the tears away, cursing himself.

"I know, Dad, it's all right," I whisper. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Kurt," he says. "Even though I want to be furious with you right now."

We hug again and stay in that position until the Peacekeepers are at the door, telling my dad his time is up.

We say our final goodbyes, and they lead him out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

The silence that falls over the room is unbearable, and I am extremely tempted to let out a frustrated scream when the door opens once again and in walks Dave.

He stares at me with an unreadable expression on his face. We stay there for a few moments until suddenly, he rushes to embrace me in a tight hug. I fully reciprocate.

"Kurt, you have to come back," he says. "I don't even care how, just please, find a way."

This angers me for some reason.

"This isn't like hunting in the woods, Dave, I'm not going against animals!" I exclaim, pulling away from him. _"Twenty-three_ other people are going to be in that arena! A lot of them are going to be _trained killers!_ Do you really think the one to come out will be _me?"_

He glares at me, his eyes dark with fury. I've only ever seen him get like this when he talks about the Capitol, deep in the forest, and it makes me afraid for a moment. Is he about to say something that could get him killed?

But then he lets out a frustrated growl and replies, "The Kurt that I know wouldn't sound so hopeless. You're strong, and you're brave, and you never give up without one hell of a fight."

I look off to the side and squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my lips together.

"Well," I say, my voice breaking a little, "maybe this is a fight that I know I can't win."

He stands there for a moment, seemingly speechless. I'm about to change the subject because I really don't want to waste anymore of our precious time together arguing, when all of a sudden, Dave places a hand on the back of my neck and pulls my face toward his.

And then… then he's kissing me.

Something stirs inside my stomach as his lips move against mine, but I'm not exactly sure what the feeling is. Lust? Anger? Confusion? I don't know because I can't force myself to return the kiss. Is this something I want?

Well, I'm not going to let it go on long enough to find out.

After a moment, I regain my composure and shove him off of me.

"What the hell are you doing?!" I exclaim, touching my fingertips to my lips.

He takes a deep breath, avoiding my heated glare. "I love you, Kurt," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

I stare at him, my eyes wide with shock. He… _loves_ me? How is that possible? For how long? And _why?_ Those kinds of people… well, they're not treated badly here, mostly because it's hard to care about something like that when people are constantly starving and dying and exhausted, but still. _I_ don't go around shouting to the whole district that I'm gay; I've only ever told Dad, Dave, and Rory, because they're the only ones I trust. Why is he only making me aware of this _now?_

I bite my lip nervously. I know I should say something, but honestly, what is there to say? I can't say I love him back because I don't—at least, I don't _think_ I do. He's always just been a friend, and I never really considered… _this._

Maybe I should do what I did with Rory when I promised to win the Games. Lie to him. I'm never going to see him again, right? So maybe I should just tell him I love him too. Maybe he can take some comfort from that when he sees me cut down by some hulking District 2 boy's blade.

But I can't do it. I can't tell him I love him when I don't. It feels like it would be cruel, somehow. I take a deep, shaky breath and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that this is all one horrible nightmare that I will soon wake up from. But when I open them again, he's still staring at me.

"I… I don't know what to say," I reply hesitantly. "I mean, you're my best friend, and of course I love you too, but… I just never really thought about you in that way."

"Well, you think about it," he says, hugging me again. "And when you get back, we can talk about it some more."

I smile, and hug him back, but I don't say anything.

The doors open behind us. "Time's up," one of the Peacekeepers says, and Dave is being pulled away from me.

Panicked, I shout, "Don't let them starve, Dave, please!"

He struggles against their grip. "I won't, Kurt, I promise! Remember, I love you!"

And then the doors close—and once again, I am left alone.

My lip starts to tremble. Dad, Dave, Rory… they're really gone. I'm never going to see them again.

I sit back down on the couch and run my hands through my hair. I try to stop the tears, but I can't help it. I just… this can't actually be _real._

But it is. It's the realest thing I've ever done—and probably the last thing I'll ever do. I can make all the promises I want, it's not going to shield me from a sword plunging into my throat.

I'm going to die. And there's nothing I can do to stop it.

The rest of the hour passes with only a quiet three-minute visit from Rory's little sister Sheena, who just hugs me and tells me it'll be okay. Then the Peacekeepers come in and grab my arms, escorting me out the back door of the Justice Building. They push me into a car, with Blaine and Terri both squeezed in beside me, but I ignore them, too wrapped up in my own thoughts to care about anything else. The ride to the train station is short, and when I get out, Capitol reporters swarm around me, asking questions and flashing their cameras in my face. I push them away, catching a glimpse of myself on one of the large television screens. I look cold and detached, even though it's obvious I've been crying.

I also see Blaine, and it's obvious he's been crying as well. But he looks more vulnerable, like if you touched him, he'd shatter into pieces. Is this his strategy? Appear weak and helpless until he gets to the arena, where he then becomes a ruthless killing machine? I remember that strategy working for a girl from District 5 a few years back, Sunshine Corazon. A clever ruse, but it would take a _lot_ of crying for Blaine to convince anyone he's weak and helpless—it's clear he has some serious muscle under that nice blue shirt of his. I don't know how he managed it while working in the bakery, but I bet he could hold his own in a hand-to-hand fight, even if he doesn't have much experience.

The thought of him in a fight almost makes me break into laughter, though. Blaine Anderson, who at times reminds me of a child's teddy bear, knocking someone down and plunging a dagger into their chest, or slicing a blade across their throat? The concept is absurd.

But then I remember that I probably will see something like that—and so much more. I quickly come back to myself and realize that I'm standing in the doorway of the train now, and I turn around to face the crowd. There are too many faces, all looking very similar. Thin. Pale. Gaunt. Filled with misery. All different, but all the same in so many ways.

Then the doors of the train close, and I'm alone again. No one watching, no one recording my every movement. My whole body starts to tremble, and I feel like bursting into tears.

Rory is gone. I'll never see him again. I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine that this is all a dream.

_When I wake up, I will go through my daily morning routine as always, grab my game bag, and head out to the forest. I will meet up with Dave first, whom I will hunt with until Rory arrives to help. The three of us will talk late into the day, and nothing will be out of the ordinary. It will not be the reaping day, and Rory will not be chosen, and I will not have to take his place. Because all of that was just a dream._

Suddenly, I feel familiar warm fingers twine themselves with mine, though, and my eyes snap back open to see Blaine standing next to me.

Oh. For a minute there, I completely forgot about him. How kind of him to bring me back to reality.

"Kurt? Are you… okay?" he asks.

The words send shivers up and down my spine. He sounds so… concerned. But why? Why would he be concerned about me? Better yet, why was he _ever_ concerned about me? Especially now that we're both tributes.

There's only one explanation—he's making me remember what he did for me, trying to make me feel guilty and form some kind of bond between us, then he can exploit it during the Games. Maybe he wants me to let down my guard so he can kill me. Maybe he wants me to hesitate if I get the chance to kill him. Maybe he even wants me to protect him against other people. Whatever his angle is, he's trying to exploit me, and it pisses me off.

I jerk my hand away from his and glare at him. "Stop it," I hiss.

He frowns, feigning a look of confusion. "Stop what?"

"Stop it. Stop acting like you _care."_

And with that, I spin around and head to my room.

* * *

**A/N: **I just want to clear something up: you'll probably notice as you're reading that the beginning and the build-up to the actual Games are very similar to what happened in the book. The premise is that the Hunger Games characters never existed, and in their place are the Glee characters—Kurt, Blaine, Mr. Schuester, etc. So, you know, that means some things have to be similar to the book.

And as for the characters, I know it's pretty easy to find who they match up to in the HG series, but I am really trying to keep them true to who they are in the show. I don't want Kurt to be an exact carbon copy of Katniss, as that definitely would not make for a unique story, but he did grow up in the same world as she did and suffered the same kind of loss that she did; thus they do have _some_ similarities. In this story, Kurt is more hostile, more serious, and he does not find it easy to trust people. He's still sarcastic, though, and he always stays true to himself, which are the traits I admire most in Kurt.

One more thing—you may notice that Rory has a sister instead of a brother. That is because I didn't know they ever said he had a brother in the show; and I didn't change it because I couldn't think of a good reason why his brother wouldn't have volunteered for him and Kurt would. So just in case you were wondering.

**Fun Fact:** Blaine was originally called 'the boy with the bread,' but I later decided to change it because first of all, that's from the book, and I don't want it to seem like I'm plagiarizing or anything. Second of all, I don't put as much focus on Blaine working in the bakery as it does in the books with Peeta, so it wouldn't really make a lot of sense for Kurt to call him 'the boy with the bread.' Granted, that day had just as big an impact on him as it did for Katniss, but Kurt didn't know what to make of it. So the next day at school when he sees Blaine wearing a bowtie, he starts to call him by his defining trait—'the boy with the bowtie.'


	3. The Capitol

**A/N:** I'm sorry this chapter is so late, but due to personal issues, the editing was delayed. To make up for it, though, I've decided to release it a day earlier than I intended to, since it's already finished!

And before you start reading: for the purposes of this story, Chandler Kiehl (that kid that Kurt was supposedly cheating on Blaine with, back in Season 3) is sixteen, as are Harmony and Gavroche (the kids from that rival show choir who were performing at the NYADA mixer, also in Season 3).

* * *

**Chapter Three… The Capitol**

I've been staring at the ceiling of my room for hours now, thinking over the past day.

"_I volunteer as tribute!" …_

"_I won't, Kurt, I promise! Remember, I love you!" …_

"_Stop acting like you _care."_ …_

I feel as if I'm a completely different person than the one who woke up yesterday morning. In some ways, I am. And unfortunately, the new me is going to be dead in a few days.

There's a knock at the door then, but I don't bother getting up. Anyone out there will know there's nothing they can do to get me to come out. The only time I came out was when we watched the recap of the reapings last night, and even then, I kept as far away from Blaine as I could.

But then I hear Will Schuester growl, "Food," and I grimace.

As if on cue, my stomach grumbles loudly. After watching the recap, I hadn't stuck around for dinner; I was too consumed in my thoughts to eat any food. But I haven't eaten since yesterday, and that was just one measly bowl of stew before the reaping, so…

I groan and push myself into a sitting position.

_Whatever. I'll have to face him eventually. Might as well get it over with now._

I stand up, reluctantly making my way out of the room and down to the dining car. I take a deep breath as the door slides open for me, and I step inside. Terri and Blaine are already sitting at the table with food in front of them, and Will, who looks like he just stumbled out of bed himself, is over at a cupboard full of glass bottles. He is taking a large bottle with a bright red label down from one of the shelves.

_Oh, gee, wonder what that could be._

"Isn't it a little early for that?" I say to him.

He snorts. "Early? It's afternoon, kid, we've all been up for hours."

I look at his rumpled clothes, bleary eyes, and uncombed hair. "Oh," I say.

Terri gives me that bright smile of hers and exclaims, "Come, come! Sit down with us and have something to eat. You must be positively starving!" She gestures to the empty seat next to Blaine.

I purse my lips. "Yeah, only for about seventeen years…" I mutter under my breath as I take the seat.

Blaine must have heard my comment because he glances at me and tries to suppress a smile. I look away, piling my plate with the strange yet delicious-smelling food.

As the four of us eat in silence, I find myself stealing glances at Blaine. Yesterday's conversation, or whatever it was, has brought the memory of him handing me that bread back quite vividly. I realized a while ago that I never even thanked him, and now, piled on top of this, I kind of feel awful right now; I mean, even if he is trying to exploit me, he did save my life once, and… I sigh, staring at the food on my plate.

_Maybe I should apologize…_

That's when Terri stands up, though. "Well, I'm all finished," she says brightly. "I think I'll go wash up and take a quick nap, so that I'm all rested up for our arrival."

And then she walks away, leaving Will, Blaine, and me all alone in an awkward silence.

Blaine lets out a sigh and places both his arms on either side of his plate, staring at Will.

"So… when exactly do we start training?" he asks curiously.

I turn to see Will pouring a large slug of clear liquid from his bottle into his cup of coffee.

_Big shocker._

"Why so eager? We've got time," he says, cracking a stupid grin and taking a big swig of his drink.

I roll my eyes and go back to eating. Of course he would be no help; he checked out of this whole thing a long time ago. District 12's tributes always die quickly, as we just can't stand up to the trained volunteers from District 1 or 2, who have been exercising and training for years—and getting proper meals, too. Why would a lazy drunk like Schuester bother wasting his time with us?

But Blaine glares at him. "We do _not _have time," he snaps, and it catches me off guard for a split second. "We're going into the Hunger Games in a week. Don't you have any advice that could actually, oh, I don't know, _help_ us?"

Will snorts and coughs, rubbing his nose. "Oh, thanks," he said. "I needed a good laugh. But next time, wait until I've finished swallowing." He chuckles. "Advice that will help you. Hmm. How about this," he says, gesturing at us with his mug. "I do have one trick I learned while I was in the Games. It's this one weird old trick that you can use to help you win." He leans toward us, and lowers his voice. "But you have to promise not to mention it to anybody else, and don't let Terri or anybody else find out that I told you."

Intrigued, I lean in closer. Blaine does likewise.

Will takes a drink of his coffee. "You both promise not to say anything about this?" he asks.

"Sure," I say.

"Of course, we promise," says Blaine.

"All right, then. Here it is." He switches to a whisper. "When you get into the Games, from the very beginning… _try to stay alive!_"

He bursts out with foul-smelling laughter that makes my eyes burn.

Blaine stares at him disbelievingly, opening and closing his mouth in an attempt to retaliate. But I just feel incredibly angry. Is this all one big joke to him? Oh, yeah, two _teenagers_ are being sent to their deaths in a couple of days. Yes, I see the humor now.

On impulse, I grab the butter knife and plunge it down into the table, right between Will's index and middle fingers. The blade vibrates in the table.

Blaine's eyes widen in shock, whereas Will slowly pulls his hand back, examining the insides of his fingers. When he looks up at me, there's an unusual expression on his face. It almost looks like… respect?

"Well, Mr. Hummel, congratulations," he says mockingly. "You've just killed your first table. Mahogany, I believe." He pulls the knife out of the table and examines it, then hands it back to me. "So. Can you actually do anything useful with that?"

I glance at Blaine, narrowing my eyes in confusion. I expected anger, not a test. Blaine shrugs.

"Uh, useful?" I say. "I… I guess so." I mean, it's no sai sword, but it's not like I've never used a knife before.

Will looks at me expectantly, and I realize that he actually wants a _demonstration._

I sigh and get to my feet, looking toward the opposite wall—this shouldn't be too difficult a shot. I get a tighter grip on the knife and swing my arm back, then hurl it at the wall.

It imbeds itself right in between two panels.

"Wow," Blaine breathes out, and I smirk.

Will raises an eyebrow, analyzing the two of us. Then, he stands up.

"Stand over there, both of you," he says, gesturing to the middle of the room.

Blaine looks at me with curiosity, and it's my turn to shrug. We move to where Will is pointing, waiting as he pushes himself to his feet and begins to circle around us.

"Well. I guess you're not _completely_ hopeless. You could be attractive enough to get a few sponsors—with some work, of course. You've both got some muscle, especially you," he points to Blaine, "and _you_ clearly know your way around a knife," he nods toward me, then stops in front of us and looks us over once more. "Overall, I'd say you're some of the better ones," he concludes.

Blaine raises an eyebrow. "Was that supposed to be a compliment…?"

I ignore him, instead looking Will up and down. "Hm, let's see. About twenty pounds underweight," I say, mockingly copying his condescending tone. "Bruises on his arm and face, perhaps from drunkenly falling off of a stage at a reaping. Bloodshot eyes. So drunk that he probably shouldn't breathe anywhere near an open flame." I shake my head. "Overall, I'd say you're one of the worse mentors I've ever seen."

Blaine stares at me, eyes wide, then covers his mouth in a not-very-successful attempt to stop himself from laughing.

Will, on the other hand, guffaws heartily. "I knew you had some fire in you!" he says, slapping me on the shoulder, and I wince at having his dirty hand on me. Then he points a finger at us. "Look," he says, "I'll make you two a deal. You don't bother me about my drinking, and I'll stay sober from now until the Games in order to help you."

"Totally sober?" I ask.

"Well, sober enough," he concedes. "I won't drink any more than I have to."

"Why would you _have_ to drink?" I demand.

Blaine touches my shoulder. "People who have been drinking for a long time can get really sick if they just stop. They have to cut down slowly."

Will nods. "Exactly right, boy. You're smarter than you look."

I just scowl at him. "How do you know? You have a secret drinking problem?"

Blaine looks away.

"I… don't really want to talk about it," he says.

Will coughs, looking embarrassed.

And too late, I realize that I've been stupid. The only way Blaine _could_ know something like that is if he's seen it—probably up close and personal.

_His father? Or maybe his mother?_

"So," Will says, interrupting my thoughts. "Do we have a deal?"

"Sure, it's a deal," Blaine says, looking grateful for the interruption. The two shake hands.

I nod, and shake his hand as well.

Will walks back to the table and plops down into his chair. "Good. Now that that's settled, go away," he says, taking a big gulp from his mug.

"What?" I exclaim angrily. "You _just_ said you would help us!"

He puts a hand up. "I will, I will. But right now isn't the time for training advice. We'll be arriving in the Capitol very soon, and then you'll be in the hands of your stylists. You won't like what they'll put you through, but don't complain; you want them to like you, or chances are, you'll look … _unfortunate_, let's say, at the Opening Ceremonies. Now, that's enough help for the moment. Go away."

I sigh wearily. There's not much else I can do, so I decide to head back to my room. I'm done with my lunch anyway.

I walk out into the hallway, but then I notice Blaine following me. I turn to look at him.

"Uh, Kurt, I was hoping we could talk," he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

I look down, feeling embarrassed. "Don't worry, I won't say anything about… what we just talked about."

Blaine frowns. "What?"

"You know," I say. "About… who is it, your dad?"

"My dad what?" Blaine looks confused.

"Who… has the drinking problem."

Blaine's eyes widen. "Oh! Oh no. No, no, it's nothing like that," he says. "Drinking was never one of the problems my family had. I just knew that stuff because one day last year, I was delivering bread to Doctor Blunt's office when Mr. Caruthers came in shaking and stumbling after one of his binges. The Doc had me run get a bottle of vodka for him, so he could ease him down. He told me all about some of the other things he's seen with alcoholics, and it was pretty nasty stuff." Then he pauses, and scratches at his neck again. "So… you know, no. I don't need you to keep quiet about my dad," he finishes.

I narrow my eyes. I'm not exactly sure who Mr. Caruthers is, but I pull to mind the images of the town's doctor, Doctor Blunt. He's really good for only having a meager amount of medical supplies, and he's nice, too—but he only treats people who live in town, since they're the ones who can actually _pay_ for treatment.

And that's why Rory's mother, Aideen, runs a medical office inside the Hob, for everyone else that needs to be treated.

I shake my head, pulling myself out of my thoughts. "Then… why didn't you say anything to Will?" I ask. "I'm pretty sure he was thinking the same thing as me, that you were talking about someone close to you. Why'd you let him think that?"

Blaine shrugs. "I kind of… figured I could guilt him into helping us. I know that's wrong, but hey, it worked," he says with a cheeky half-smile.

All I can respond with is a simple, "Oh," because I feel an odd sense of pride at the thought of Blaine guilt-tripping Will. I bite my lip, trying to suppress a smile as I look down at my feet.

Then Blaine takes a step forward.

"Anyway, I actually wanted to talk to you about yesterday," he says. "I… I'm sorry for trying to hold your hand. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable or anything; it was just my stupid, misguided way of showing you that… you know, I'm here for you," he says, and he looks at me through his lashes, clasping his hands together. "But I understand that it was inappropriate, so again, I'm sorry."

I blink, narrowing my eyes in confusion. Why… why would _he_ apologize to _me?_

Suddenly, I feel irritated.

"It's fine, Blaine," I snap. "And for your information, I don't need you to be so concerned about me. I'm not a child. I can take care of myself."

He frowns. "I know. I was just trying to help, Kurt—"

"Well, I don't _want_ your help! And I don't need it!" I flare, because _seriously,_ why is he being so nice to me? Whatever flicker of a friendship we _could_ have had before all this happened has definitely been stamped out by now, and I'm most definitely _not_ going to trust him, not now that we're both tributes. So why?

Blaine tries to say something else, but I cut him off. "No! Stop it! Stop feeling sorry for me, and stop being so nice! We aren't friends here, Blaine, we _can't_ be, because we're going into an arena with a couple dozen other people who all want to kill us, and at any point I might have to kill you or you might have to kill me! We can't be _friends_ when either one of us might have to stab the other one! So let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is—it's the Hunger Games, and we don't get a choice in any of it. So stop trying to comfort me, stop trying to make friends, and stop making all of this so damn _hard!"_

And with that, I spin around and stomp back to my room.

I take a deep breath and shut my eyes, leaning back against the door. Guilt and regret start to seep through me, and I consider going back out there to apologize, but I can't. I _have_ to push him away—being on friendly terms with him is only going to make it harder if it does come down to me having to kill him. And really, that's what I have to be prepared to do if I'm going to have any chance at all of going back home. I want that more than anything in the world, so I will stay in here and pretend to hate that boy.

_The boy with the bowtie._

I push myself away from the door and plop down onto the bed. I think about taking a quick nap, but I know my dreams will only be haunted by images of that day he saved my life. So I resort to staring at the ceiling again. It's not much as far as comfort goes, but it's the best I can do.

I stay there for God knows how long, until there's a sudden knock at my door. Then it slides open to reveal Terri, and she barges into the room.

"Get up, sleepyhead!" she says excitedly. "We're only minutes away from the station! Go make yourself look presentable before we arrive!" Then she rushes back out, probably to tell everyone else.

I scowl and sit back up, walking to the window. The room goes dark, even though the lights are still on, and I realize we must be inside the tunnel that runs through the giant mountain range that separates the eastern districts from the Capitol. The mountains have always been a huge strategic advantage for the Capitol, because the geography is almost impassable from deep snowdrifts and glaciers that never melt; even in the middle of summer it would be nearly impossible to make it across the rugged peaks. A single rock-climbing expert might be able to make it, but not an army. The only realistic way to approach the Capitol is to use the tunnels. I've heard that this advantage had a lot to do with the districts losing the war.

Faint lights flash by my windows at regular intervals, but they're gone too quickly for me to see anything. I do get the impression that we're racing through the tunnels at incredible speeds, though.

And then, after a few more minutes, sunlight floods back into my room. The train has come out of the other side of the tunnel. Which means we are now inside the Capitol—the ruling city of Panem.

My eyes widen at the sight, even as I shade them from the bright light. I've seen the Capitol plenty of times on television, but seeing it in person is something else entirely. I never imagined it looked this wonderful—everywhere I look there are buildings reaching up into the sky, with shimmering colors dancing up and down their surfaces; it's as if the structures are all competing with each other to see which one can be the most eye-catching. Tiny cars float along the streets below them, and hovercrafts move in orderly lines further up. A gloriously blue lake stretches out to the left, and colorful boats dot the surface. And the people! I can't see many details from here, but there are so _many_ of them, more than I've ever seen in my life! And then I realize that all of those buildings and cars and hovercrafts and boats are _also_ full of people, and… wow.

I completely forget about pretending to hate Blaine and run back to the dining car. Terri, Will, and Blaine are all there—Terri bouncing with excitement, Blaine as speechless as I am as the city passes by, and Will gulping down what looks to be a fresh cup of coffee.

I take my place next to Will just as we pull into the train station, and I'm caught off guard when swarms of the strange people standing just a few feet in front of us start to snap pictures and scream excitedly. They are the most amazingly-dressed people I've ever seen. There are some women dressed in flaring polka-dot dresses, some in shimmering pantsuits that change colors, and all of them seem to be wearing shoes with heels that are at least ten inches tall. And the men—I see some of them wearing suits that look like they're made of fur, and reptile scales, and feathers. Even the _children_ of the crowd are dressed to impress, with moving art on their clothes: cartoons and other characters dancing, running, and doing other silly things. And almost all of them are clutching delicious fried foods or frosty cups of sweet drinks.

I think back to my dad's threadbare work clothes, and to the stew we had managed to stretch out for the last six days.

_Do these people know how lucky they are? What is wrong with this world?_

I take a step back, blocking most of myself behind Will. Blaine, on the other hand, stays where he is, and actually smiles and waves back at them.

_We're famous, we're superstars. And the people of the Capitol are our biggest fans._

This disgusts me.

"Hey," Will interrupts my train of thought. "You should think about taking some lessons from him. At least he knows how to please a crowd."

_Oh, yes, it is my mission in life to please this crowd,_ I think sarcastically. But I just roll my eyes and ignore him, focusing on Blaine. This all seems so natural to him—the smile, the wave, the cheery look. I just don't understand how he does it. How does he hide his distaste for these people?

Then the doors open, and I have no more time to think of crowds or Blaine. Terri ushers us out onto the platform, people screaming our names all around us, and dozens of flashes blind me as cameras go off in my face. It's insane, complete sensory overload, and luckily, Terri manages to lead us inside the building before anybody can touch me. I still feel a little jittery, though; in fact, I'm so disoriented that the next thing I know, Terri and Blaine have disappeared, and I've been shoved into a sterile white room that reminds me of some sort of laboratory. There are two boys and a girl in my presence.

"Um… hi," I say.

They don't respond, though. Instead, they converge on me, and in seconds I've been stripped of all my clothes.

I'm too shocked to do or say anything. There's a long silence as they circle around me, examining my body in clinical detail. Then one of the boys opens up a cabinet and starts wheeling out trays of tools and waxes, and the other boy starts arranging them in some kind of order I can't figure out.

Then the girl with dark brown hair is standing in front of me and blocking my view. She gives me a smile.

"Hi! My name is Harmony," she says with a little curtsy.

"Uh, Kurt. Kurt Hummel," I say awkwardly.

She walks over to a hook nailed into the wall where a crème-colored bathrobe is hanging and carefully removes it, bringing it back over to me.

"Here, you can cover up with this for now," she says.

_Oh, thank god._

I let out a short sigh of relief and quickly slip it on. Harmony giggles.

The two boys step up to me. The one with thick black glasses, blonde hair, and a neon pink beanie hat is pushing the cart of tools; the other, dressed simply but fashionably with dark brown hair, stands with his hand on his chin as he examines my face from mere inches away.

"So, you are Kurt," he says. "My name is Gavroche, and this here is Chandler."

The boy with the pink hat steps up and takes my right hand in both of his, shaking it vigorously and looking at me with admiration.

"We are all _so_ pleased to meet you. I mean, after what you did for that boy at the reaping… It was just so heart-warming," he says in a shaky voice.

His eyes glisten, and he quickly turns away to hide his reddening face as a tear slips down his cheek.

_Uh… Okay then…_

Ignoring the little outburst of emotion, I survey the three with careful precision. They all look fairly young, around my age, which makes me wonder why they're already doing this. I mean, sure, it's not unheard of for children to start working in the mines or for family businesses back in District 12; I'm sure Blaine has been helping out at his family's bakery since he was old enough to walk. But these are Capitol children—they don't need the money like families in the districts do. And even if they did, surely they wouldn't be chosen as a prep team for the Hunger Games. Those spots go to the more experienced, more established stylists, not to a bunch of _kids._

Curiosity gets the better of me after a moment, and I find myself asking, "Aren't you all a little young to be working as a prep team?"

Gavroche purses his lips. "Normally, yes. However, the head stylist for District Twelve this year is new, and she said she wanted a prep team made up of the most gifted students in training. That would be us."

"Yeah, she said something about us having fresh blood," says Chandler.

Harmony laughs. "She said it takes young blood to come up with fresh new ideas, Chan."

"Oh yeah," he says, placing a finger to his chin. "Anyway, we have the freshest blood of any of the students."

Harmony rolls her eyes, then leans over and speaks to me in a conspiratorial whisper. "Chan is actually a genius when it comes to makeup. Trust me, you want him on your team, no matter how weird he seems."

I bite back the urge to be blunt: frankly, all of these Capitol people seem weird to me. Chandler does look a little ridiculous, with his glassy eyes and blotchy face, but not really much different from anybody else in this place.

Harmony and Chandler are both giving enormous smiles, though, so I smile back and nod. Then Gavroche pushes me backwards and I collapse into an extremely soft chair that has somehow appeared behind me. Gavroche gestures with his hand and the chair slowly tilts backward and flattens me out.

"All right, enough chit-chat, we need to get busy. There's a _lot_ of work to be done on you."

I can't help it when I retort, "Gee, thanks for being so kind about it." But as soon as it comes out, I bite down on my tongue.

_Damn it, Will said not to complain! I'm gonna look like a troll for the Opening Ceremonies now, aren't I?_

Surprisingly, though, this just gets a laugh from the three of them—even Gavroche, who seems to be the 'all work, no play' type of guy.

"He was right, this one _does_ have a lot of fire," says Harmony.

"He?" Chandler asks confusedly.

"The mentor from District 12, you know, Mister… Schueller?"

"Schuester," Gavroche corrects.

"Oh yes, Schuester," Harmony says, nodding. "That guy."

Chandler wrinkles his nose. "Oh, _him_," he says. "I didn't like him, he was gross."

I raise an eyebrow, trying not to laugh.

Chandler misinterprets my expression. "Oh my god! I'm sorry, no offense intended, I'm sure your mentor is a wonderful person! He's just a little… um…"

"Gross," I finish. "Yeah, I know. Don't worry, you're not going to offend me by insulting Will Schuester. Besides, it's not like he's been talking too highly of _me."_

They chuckle again, and then Gavroche snaps his fingers.

"All right, fun is fun, but we need to get down to business," he snaps. "Remember—this has got to be our best work yet."

Harmony and Chandler nod enthusiastically. I smile, attempting to prepare myself for whatever is to come.

As it turns out, I'm not prepared. The first thing they do is whip off my robe again. I'm more self-conscious this time, since it feels like I've gotten to know them a little bit—oddly enough, it was much less embarrassing to have complete _strangers_ examining me, and now that I know them better… This thought causes me to flush a bright red, which no doubt stands out brilliantly against my normally pale, milky skin. Fortunately, the three of them seem to be completely unfazed by my reaction, and they begin slathering me with a thick honey-like paste until my entire body is covered. They then plaster me with a bunch of small sheets of papery plastic.

_Some kind of cleaning procedure?_

Except then they start pulling the sheets off, along with the paste that is now sticking to the sheets, and I realize that this is a hair-removal treatment. I can tell this because of the fiery waves of pain that wash through my skin every time another sheet is peeled away from me. I swear, this hurts even more than that time Rory and I were hunting and we managed to get on opposite sides of a jackrabbit—Rory somehow managed to miss the little bastard and threw his knife straight into my hand. Granted, the wound wasn't very deep, and Rory's mom was able to stitch it up remarkably well; but there are a _lot_ of nerves in your hands, and it was the most painful experience I'd ever had.

At least until now.

After three or four eternities in hell, they're finished ripping out all of my hair. They then lead me to a giant tub with a lot of specialized nozzles on it, and when I step in, I am immediately met with a spray of cold water. It's shocking, but it feels nice against my burning skin. And before I can start to shiver, the water turns warm, then hot, and the pain fades away completely. I relax and close my eyes, enjoying the sensation of the water against my skin. The peaceful feelings don't last long, though, as Gavroche and Chandler start to scrub me down with roughened sponges, while Harmony starts rubbing some kind of soap into my hair and scalp. The whole process seems to take hours before they finally finish. The nozzles rotate around me, rinsing the soapy residue and dead skin away, and then shut off, leaving me shivery and tingling in the air.

"You know, you've been unusually quiet," says Gavroche as the three of them quickly towel me off. "Most of the people we've trained on have been… much more vocal."

Chandler snorts. "They've been a bunch of whiny crybabies, you mean," he says, as he starts to rub a thick cream onto my chest. It feels briefly hot and prickly on my skin before it absorbs in.

"Why bother?" I respond. "Whining wouldn't make it hurt any less."

There's a moment of silence.

"You're certainly very different, Kurt," Harmony says as she messes around a bit with my hair. Somehow, I can tell she means it as a compliment.

The three students continue working in silence, applying creams and splashes of liquids to different areas of my body. I zone out for a moment, wondering if anybody has ever fallen asleep while being prepped, when suddenly I become aware that something peculiar is happening. Gavroche is rubbing the cream all over my skin, and Harmony is fixing up my hair, but Chandler…

Chandler is running his fingers up and down my back.

This makes me extremely uncomfortable, and I start to fidget. Gavroche, attempting to moisturize one of my dry elbows, misses with a squirt of the lotion he's using, causing it to land on my foot. He looks at my face to see why I'm moving around so much, and then, seeing my expression and noticing what Chandler is doing, jerks his head at Harmony.

She looks over at Chandler.

"Hey!" she says sharply, slapping his wandering hands away. She gives him a glare. "Stop that!" she says, in a tone of voice like a mother scolding her five-year-old child.

"But he's so pretty and soft!" Chandler whines. "He's like a life-sized doll!"

"Knock it off, Chandler. We need to finish this soon," Gavroche says firmly.

Chandler pouts, but turns away.

I'm left with a weird feeling, and any friendliness or camaraderie I felt toward them has completely evaporated. I'm just… an object in their hands, nothing more than a training dummy. The way they handle me, the way they speak about me—I'm just a doll, an interesting toy.

_I never thought I'd say this, but… I actually miss District 12. I may have been a nobody, but at least I was treated like an actual human being._

After a few more minutes, Gavroche takes a step back, admiring his work. Harmony joins him, and gives a squeal of delight.

"Oh, he's absolutely stunning!" she exclaims, clapping her hands.

Gavroche smiles and nods. "He certainly is," he says. "I think he's ready."

_Ready?_

With a snap of his fingers, Gavroche turns on his heel and heads toward the door, with Harmony and Chandler quickly scurrying after. The three disappear from the room.

I stand there, unmoving, hardly daring to blink.

_Should I put my robe back on?_

I decide not to risk it, though, since I don't know when they'll be back or what they'll do next. So I just stand and wait.

Finally the door opens again, and the three walk back in—but this time, someone else is behind them. As she enters the room, I see a short woman with long, dirty blonde hair and a skinny figure. She motions for the prep team to step back, and they do so immediately. Then she stands in front of me, examining my whole body from top to bottom. I resist the urge to cover myself up and stay completely still as she circles around a couple of times.

She stops in front of me again, staring straight into my eyes. I hold her piercing gaze, trying to match her confidence.

Without turning, she speaks. "You three did a fine job," she says. "You may leave now."

Harmony, Gavroche, and Chandler all visibly sigh in relief at this and hurry out of the room. I am left alone with this strange woman.

She walks over and grabs the robe off the hook in the wall, tossing it to me.

"Put this on and follow me, please," she says.

I gratefully pull the robe around myself and walk with her into a lavish room decorated with sparkling crystal furniture. The woman sits down on a couch and gestures for me to join her. I hesitate only a second before obeying.

She gestures with her hands, and platters of food rise up from beneath the table sitting in front of us.

"I trust you are hungry?" she asks.

I try to think of the last time that I ate. Lunch on the train, right? But that wasn't that long ago, or at least I _think_ it wasn't… I guess I don't really know how long I've been here. It feels like it could have been anywhere from an hour to a week.

Not wanting to be rude, though, I nod. "Thank you," I say, taking some of the bread off the table. It does smell delicious.

"So, Mr. Hummel," the woman says, leaning forward a little. "My name is Isabelle Wright. I'll be your stylist from now until you enter the arena."

I extend a hand toward her. "It's nice to meet you," I say.

She smiles kindly, but doesn't extend her hand.

_Uh… does she have problems touching people?_ I think, confused. _Or maybe just people from District Twelve?_

Then I look down, and realize that the hand I held out is still full of bread.

"Oh, whoops," I say embarrassedly, placing the bread in my other hand.

She smiles and shakes my now-empty right hand. "Not a problem, Mr. Hummel," she says. "Though you'd best get used to shaking hands with people, now that you're here."

I let out a nervous laugh—I guess all the pressure from today has finally gotten to me. Still, that doesn't make me feel any less stupid.

"Well, you know, I guess I'm just not used to having food in my hands. I am from District Twelve, after all," I joke.

Instead of laughing at my quip, though, Ms. Wright just gets a sad look on her face.

"Unfortunately quite accurate, as I'm sure you well know," she says. Then she shakes her head, as if trying to clear her mind. "However, now is not the time to focus on that problem. What we need to be thinking of is your future—specifically, in the Hunger Games." Then there's a moment of silence as she picks up a sugar cookie and takes a bite.

This is… not what I expected from my stylist. Maybe I should find out a little more about her; besides, she _is_ responsible for presenting me to all of Panem.

"So… is it okay if I ask you something, Ms. Wright?" I say, picking at the bread in my hand.

She swallows and nods. "Of course. And please, call me Isabelle."

"Okay, uh, Isabelle. You're… a new stylist, right? It's just, I don't think I've ever seen you representing any other tributes before."

She chuckles and leans back into the couch cushions, finishing off her cookie. "Yes, this is my first year."

"Oh." I sigh. "Well, I'm sorry you got stuck with Twelve for your first assignment."

"Stuck?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "Oh no, Mr. Hummel, I asked for Twelve."

"What?"

"Well, to be more precise, I _insisted_ on Twelve, after I saw the reapings." She chuckles again. "Though I will admit that the other stylists were only too glad to give me what I asked for."

I am thoroughly confused. "But… why?"

"I couldn't say for sure, but probably because District Twelve has a fairly poor record when it comes to winners, and your Mr. Schuester has never exactly endeared himself to the stylists."

I smile, but shake my head. "No, I mean, why would you _ask_ for District Twelve?"

"Oh, yes, of course," she says. Then she pauses and grabs another sugar cookie, taking a small bite. "Mr. Hummel, don't you remember what you did for that young boy? Volunteering to take his place? Well, that was one of the most surprising acts of bravery and selflessness I've ever seen. And it'd be a huge honor to represent you during our short time together."

My expression apparently amuses her, because she laughs. "What's the problem, dear?"

I try to straighten my face back into a neutral look, but it doesn't work.

"I just…" I shake my head again. "I don't want to offend you or anything, but it just surprised me, is all."

"What surprised you?" she questions.

"Well, you know, that somebody from this… place…" I gesture around us at the opulent surroundings. "Well, you know."

She nods. "So you find it surprising that someone from the Capitol could admire you for that sort of nobility?"

I nod sheepishly. "I guess that's it."

"Well, get used to it, Mr. Hummel, because you may not realize it, but the people here absolutely _adore_ you. And it's because of what you did for that boy."

I bite my lip, looking down at my lap. "Well, um… thank you, I guess."

She nods. "You're quite welcome."

There's an awkward silence after that, at least to _me_—Isabelle seems perfectly content sitting in silence as she finishes off her cookie—so I decide to change the subject.

"So, I guess you'll be dressing us in the usual coal miner outfit?" I ask.

"Oh good _Lord,_ no," Isabelle says, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Those things are absolutely hideous, not to mention quite played out after all these years. No, I think we'll be wanting to try something new," and she pauses for a second and leans forward, a conspiratorial smile spreading across her lips. "I want you to make an _impression_."

I remember how the Capitol citizens I saw from the train were dressed, and I wonder what could possibly make an impression on people who already do their best to make themselves look like drugged-up peacocks.

_Do I even want to know?_

Swallowing nervously, I go ahead and ask. "And what do you think could help me make an impression?"

Her conspiratorial smile becomes a wicked grin.

"Tell me, Mr. Hummel," she says, "are you afraid of fire?"

* * *

**A/N:** I'm really glad you guys are liking the story so far. Honestly, it probably wouldn't be as good as it is now without my editor, so thanks, Editor! You're pretty cool.

And please, leave a review! I love to hear people's comments—it's one of the things I love most about writing!

**Fun Fact:** I originally wrote the Cinna-like character to be David Martinez, or Ricky Martin's character, but after hearing of Isabelle, I had to change it. Personally, I didn't watch much of Season 4 of Glee, but I know that Isabelle was always very supportive of Kurt, so I changed the character to her. Besides, I thought of a much better role for David Martinez later on—so don't worry, he'll still be involved.


	4. The Boy on Fire

**A/N:** I am so sorry this chapter is coming out so late. I've just been so anxious and depressed lately, and I lost my motivation to write or edit any of my stories for a while. But I'm feeling better now, and I really hope you guys enjoy the chapter. :)

By the way, Kurt and Blaine's costumes are based off of the leather outfit Kurt wore in the Season 3 episode 'Michael,' during "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'."

* * *

**Chapter Four… The Boy on Fire**

"Don't worry, Mr. Hummel, it can't harm you."

I press my lips together and look down at the costume Isabelle has put me in. It looks fairly normal, at least by Capitol standards, which still means it is much more elaborate than anything I've ever worn before: a black leather unitard with a flared collar, shiny studded boots laced up past my ankles, and a long black cape flowing behind me. Everything looks so magnificent; however, I'm a bit worried by what they want to do with the cape.

"I'm pretty sure clothes that are on fire _can_ harm me, actually," I say with a roll of my eyes, but Isabelle just laughs.

"Under normal circumstances, that would be true," she says. "And I must concede, you have good reason to be afraid of fire. Unfortunately, the cape _needs_ to be set on fire in order to give off the effect we want, so if you're not okay with this…"

"Then you're just going to have to live with it," Chandler pipes up.

I glare at the boy, who is now nodding and beaming innocently at me, then look back toward Isabelle.

"I am _not_ afraid of fire," I say, folding my arms across my chest. "I just… you know. It's not like anyone _likes_ fire." I raise an eyebrow. "Especially not attached to them."

Isabelle touches my shoulder. "Trust me, Kurt, there really is no need to worry. Yes, the cape is going to erupt in spectacular flames and sparks, but it's not real fire—just a synthetic fire that Holly and I came up with. So when I say it can't harm you, I mean it literally," she says, a soft look in her eyes.

I bite my lip as she continues perfecting my hair.

"So, no one has ever been hurt by it?" I ask.

Gavroche glances up from inspecting his nails. "Holly lost an eyebrow while we were developing it."

Harmony snaps her head around to look at him. "Oh my god, Gav, shut up!" she exclaims, smacking him in the shoulder. "That was an earlier version—_this_ version has never hurt anybody at all."

"Well… that's good at least," I say. "How many times have you practiced with it, though?" I ask, looking around at the four of them.

Isabelle exchanges a quick, guilty look with her prep team, which immediately makes me dread her answer.

"Has _anyone_ tried this before?" I say.

"Oh, absolutely," Harmony says with a comforting smile. "We tested it a lot."

Isabelle nods. "Yes, of course. Granted, we _have_ made some improvements to it since then, but it's essentially the same," she says. Then she forces a bright, cheery smile and pats my shoulder in an attempt to reassure me. "But really, there is no need to worry."

I glare at her. "Improvements?" I repeat, and I let out a chuckle that is more like a huff and fold my arms across my chest. "Right, yes, no need to worry. I'll just be burning to death on national television in a few minutes, no big deal," I bite.

Isabelle rolls her eyes. "There's no need to get sarcastic with me. Besides, there's still time for me to _actually_ replace the synthetic fire with real flame," she says, softly slapping my arm. When I sigh, she smiles again and begins straightening the gold bands around my forearms, readjusting the sparkling diamond chain twisting around my neck and dangling over my chest. "You're just going to have to trust me on this one, Mr. Hummel; once you are out there and that stunning fiery cape is lit, you are going to be all that anyone is talking about. I want the people to recognize you in the arena. I want them to be on your side. I want them to love you." She looks off to the side determinedly, her fingers curled into a fist. "Kurt Hummel, the boy who was on fire."

I purse my lips, shooting her a look. "Well… fine. If you're sure about this," I respond, and she nods.

We fall silent, just as Blaine and a strange blonde-haired woman come walking up to us. I am relieved to see that Blaine is dressed in the same exact thing as me, except his costume has bright orange-colored bands around the forearms instead of gold ones, and he doesn't have the diamond chain. The cape looks identical to mine, though, so if nothing, at least I won't die alone.

The woman, whom I presume to be Blaine's stylist Holly, begins talking about some last-minute ideas with Isabelle, and her prep team mingles with mine; everybody seems quite excited to see how the audience will react to our costumes.

Blaine leans over to me.

"Nervous?" he whispers.

I look him over, and nod. "Yes."

He smiles. "Me too," he says, then he leans away.

This small interaction makes me feel strangely better, despite the fact that I'm supposed to be making myself hate Blaine. It's just nice to know that Blaine is as freaked out by the idea of a flaming cape as I am, especially seeing as how Blaine has been working closely with fire his whole life, what with growing up in the bakery. Granted, cooking fires aren't generally attached to your back, but hey, at least I'm not being _completely_ ridiculous.

"_Would all tributes head down to the bottom level of the Remake Center at this time,"_ a loud voice booms around the room, and Isabelle and Holly look up from their hurried conversation.

"Time to go, you two," Isabelle says, gesturing at us.

We say goodbye to the prep teams as we exit the lobby, and Isabelle leads us down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is practically a stable. I can tell we're just minutes away from starting because all the other pairs of tributes have already started loading up into the chariots. Isabelle and Holly help Blaine and me into the very last chariot, the District Twelve chariot, and carefully rearrange our positions and the drape of our capes before stepping away to consult with one another again.

"Well, look on the bright side," Blaine says under his breath. "If we burn to death, we won't have to worry about the Hunger Games."

A slight smile spreads across my lips. "Oh yes, we'll have the most memorable tribute deaths ever—burning alive before the Hunger Games even begin," I joke.

He pumps his fist. "We'll be famous at last!" he exclaims, and I let out a laugh. Blaine looks at me for a moment and smiles. "In all seriousness, though, how about this: if worse comes to worse, I'll rip your cape off if you rip mine off. How does that sound?"

I nod. "Agreed." We shake hands.

Then we share a look, both of us grinning like idiots, and for a moment, I actually forget that I'm supposed to hate this boy.

And then the opening music starts up, and I'm brought back to myself as huge doors open to reveal the streets of the Capitol, where thousands upon thousands of people are waiting. We will ride down the streets in the chariot for about twenty minutes until we reach the City Circle, and they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center. The twenty-four of us who were chosen as tributes will be staying there until the Games start.

First, the two tributes from District 1 ride out in their chariot, dressed in their beautiful diamond-clad costumes, representing the luxury items their district makes for the Capitol. I hear the crowd go wild; they are always the favorites.

District 2 follows after them, and then District 3. Before I know it, the District 10 chariot is riding out, and just one more chariot is left before us. Isabelle is suddenly standing beside me with a lighted torch.

"Here we go!" she says excitedly, and with a flourish, she swipes the torch across our capes.

I clamp my eyes shut, preparing for agony as my skin starts to char, but all I feel is a very faint tingling sensation. My eyes spring open, and I look back at the brilliant flames that engulf my and Blaine's capes. It's positively stunning.

Isabelle and Holly share a look.

"Perfect!" Isabelle exclaims.

"Thank God," Holly says. "I was a little worried about that."

My eyes widen, and I'm about to snap at them when the District 11 chariot rides out, and suddenly, we're at the doors.

"All right, you two, this is it," Isabelle says, and she gives us a look. "Remember to smile, keep your heads high. Just be confident, and they'll love you out there!"

She jumps back down as the chariot lurches forward, and we are on our way.

"And holds hands!" she shouts from behind us.

I look to Blaine with widened eyes. Holds hands? Why does Isabelle want us to hold hands? But Blaine just shrugs and grabs my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine.

We enter the city, and a hush falls over the crowd as we come into view. I am worried for a moment that maybe our costumes aren't making the kind of impression that Isabelle wanted, but then there's an eruption of sound as the crowd goes wild, cheering, screaming, shouting, and chanting, "_District Twelve! District Twelve!_"

I seem to lose myself for a moment. Everywhere I look, all the faces are staring right at me, shouting our names in admiration and excitement. It's astonishing, almost over-the-top, and I wonder why they're so fixated on us. Then I catch sight of us on one of the large video screens, and I realize why every eye is on us. The flames of our capes seem to leave a blazing trail of fire behind us, and the glow is perfectly illuminating our faces. I wondered why Isabelle hadn't caked our faces in makeup, like all the other tributes had on, but now I can see that she knew what she was doing. The other tributes look somewhat plastic and mannequin-like, quite different from the way they normally look. Blaine and I, though… we look more attractive than normal, yet still have a healthy, normal look, and we remain completely recognizable.

"_Remember to smile, keep your heads high. Just be confident, and they'll love you out there!"_ Isabelle's advice echoes in my head, so I throw my shoulders back, hold my head high, and put on what I hope is my most dazzling smile. Following Blaine's lead, I start waving to the crowd as if this sort of thing is totally second nature to me.

The music, the cheers, the constant chanting of my name—I thought it would be completely overwhelming, but instead all I feel is excitement and adrenaline rushing through my veins. And why shouldn't I feel that way? Isabelle has given me a great advantage for when I'm in the arena. Based upon all these people's reactions, surely I won't have much trouble getting a sponsor—maybe even more than one. And sponsors can mean life in the arena.

For the first time, I feel some real hope. With a lot of luck, I might actually have a chance at winning this thing—at returning to Dad and Rory and Dave.

I don't realize just how tightly I've been clinging to Blaine's hand until we reach the City Circle and my fingers start to ache. It seems a little weird to me how Isabelle has chosen to present us. Two boys holding hands? I mean, do the Capitol people not care about things like that? I know the people of District 12 don't really care, but that's more a result of everybody being too tired from working in the mines and trying to scrape a living together to care about what your neighbors do in their private lives. The people here, though, they love to pry into each other's business; they practically live on gossip and titillating tales of the things everybody else is getting up to. In fact, as I look over their faces, I notice that, far from not caring, they actually seem _excited_ by the fact that we're holding hands. It's… strange.

As we enter the City Circle, I can see the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol peering down from the buildings we pass. Once our chariot finishes the loop of the circle, we pull up right in front of President Sylvester's mansion. The booming music ends just then, and President Sylvester herself, a tall woman with short blonde hair and cold blue eyes, steps out onto a balcony above us. She gives everyone the traditional welcome and begins speaking about the Hunger Games.

Usually, they cut away to shots of all the tributes' faces during the speech, and today is no exception, except I can see that Blaine and I are getting _way_ more than our share of screen time. With sunset long past and the sky quickly darkening overhead, it is becoming harder and harder to see anything but our brilliant flaming cloaks. When the national anthem starts up, the chariots make one last trip around the City Circle before pulling in to the Training Center, and while they do get some quick shots of the other pairs of tributes, the cameras turn back to us within seconds and stay there until the doors slide shut.

The prep teams rush up to us, squealing and rambling about how amazing we looked out there. I look around at the other tributes, who all glare back with jealousy. I can hardly blame them—after all, we _literally_ outshone them all tonight, and if that isn't just the best thing in whole world, then I don't know what is.

Holly and Isabelle show up soon after, doling out praise as Holly uses a spray can to extinguish our capes.

"You two were absolutely amazing out there!" Isabelle exclaims, clapping her hands together. "They loved you!"

I smile. "Thank you."

"Yeah, you two had nothing to be worried about," Holly says, finishing up with the spray. "To be frank, the other tributes looked like yesterday's fried seaweed compared to you."

Blaine and I share a look, and he laughs. Then Harmony leans over to ask Isabelle something about District 7's costumes, and they all quickly begin to argue over the answer to her question.

That's when I realize that my and Blaine's hands are still tightly interlocked, though, and I quickly force my fingers open.

"Sorry," I mumble, my cheeks burning with embarrassment as I try to massage some feeling back into them. "I… didn't mean to hold on so tightly."

Blaine grins, stretching his fingers a little. "It's fine. I needed something to hold onto, too. I think we were both a little nervous."

"You had no reason to be nervous," I say before I can stop myself. Then I think better of it. "I- I mean… you just, you looked good out there." _What am I saying?_ "You know, from what I could see. I guess."

_Oh good god._

Blaine laughs and looks down at his feet, and he almost seems bashful as he replies, "Oh, I don't really think anyone was watching me—not with you right next to me. You look good in flames. Very handsome."

He gives me a small smile, and my heart starts to flutter uncontrollably. No one has ever said anything like that to me…

But then I remember our conversation on the train. I can't do this. I can't start to like him, not now, not knowing what's coming. I shouldn't be making friends, I should be staying focused, I _have_ to stay focused on winning this stupid game. If I don't, I'll never see my home—my _family_—again.

And why would Blaine even say something like that? What does he want from me?

… I'm not sure, but I know I can't trust him. He's in the same position as me. He shouldn't be being nice to rival tributes any more than I should. Besides, this is probably just some lame attempt to get me to apologize for yelling at him, anyway. That must be it. That's the only thing that makes sense.

I clear my throat and force a smile.

"Thanks, Blaine. That's really nice," I say, before reverting back to silence.

A moment later, the stylists and prep teams finally finish their debate, and they herd us toward the doors that lead to the lobby of the Training Center. The lobby is enormous, filled with statues, expensive-looking sculptures, gorgeous recessed light fixtures, and exotic pieces of furniture. I'm almost sad that we can't stay for a little while longer, until we get in the elevator that leads to the different floors. Now, I haven't used many elevators in my lifetime (come to think of it, I haven't used any), but I've seen some on Hunger Games broadcasts before, and this elevator seems different than any of the ones I've seen before: it's made of glass, and when we start to shoot upward toward the highest floor, I can actually see the people standing down in the lobby as they appear to shrink to minuscule sizes. It's quite amusing, unlike anything I've ever seen before.

We reach the top floor, and the elevator doors slide open, revealing a gorgeously-decorated room. The hardwood floors seem to sparkle, there's a huge banquet table piled high with all sorts of food and treats, and best of all, all the furniture is made of active materials that can reconfigure themselves to exactly what each person wants. I watch Isabelle and Holly sit down on a park bench that, after a few hand gestures from Isabelle, changes into a soft green, overstuffed couch.

I want to investigate every single thing, but for whatever reason, I walk over to the window first. The sky is dark outside, and the Capitol is beautifully lit up all around us. All sorts of lights are scattered everywhere, from dim coals glowing in the distance to brilliant jewels flashing in the sky and in the buildings across from me. Far below, the tiny crowds of people are filling the courtyard and lining the streets, each individual dressed in their own unique style. It's breathtaking, and it makes me feel small in such a large world.

_It's a shame they'll want to see me get my head cut off in a few days._

I shake my head, trying to push back the depressing thoughts. I glance around the room. The prep teams are standing together at the food table, chattering excitedly together and eating as they talk. The stylists are sitting together on the couch, and Blaine is standing close by, trying to unhook his cape. I sigh and turn back to the window, feeling alone.

That's when the elevator _pings_ behind me and slides open again, and Terri steps out into the room.

"You two were absolutely _wonderful_ out there!" she gushes, and she walks over to Blaine, holding his hands and bouncing. "Oh, this is so exciting! You two are the first tributes I've had who have made such a big impression at the Opening Ceremonies!"

Blaine smiles at that. "Well, you know, it's really Isabelle and Holly who did such a good job," he says kindly. "It was their costume design that made us look so amazing."

"Oh yes," Terri says. "That's a good point, Blaine, thank you." Then she walks over and daintily sits down next to the stylists, and she congratulates the three of them as a recap of the Opening Ceremonies comes on the holoscreen in front of them.

Blaine finally manages to unhook his cape and drapes it across the back of one of the dining chairs, then slowly walks over toward me with his arms folded across his chest. I turn to the window, unable to look him in the eye after what I said earlier.

Everything here is so different from District Twelve—hovercrafts zipping past the Training Center, Capitol people getting rides inside the trolley cars that float up and down the streets, parties in almost every single building. And I know I should hate all of it, should despise everything about this place and these people. But I can't when it's all so…

"Beautiful," Blaine says breathlessly.

I look over at him again. His grin reminds me of that day he saved my life, and suddenly, I don't feel as alone or embarrassed as I did a moment ago.

We stand there in silence for a while. It's not until Holly announces that she's going to bed that everyone else decides to do the same. Terri takes me past the kitchen and into a long hallway with everyone's rooms attached. Mine is at the very end on the left side.

"Remember to get a lot of sleep. Besides, we've got a big day tomorrow!" she trills.

Then she shoves me inside, and the door slides shut and locks into place—which leaves me alone once again. I look around at the massive bed with silvery sheets, and the enormous window with a fantastic view. There's also a huge dresser in the corner and a bathroom attached; the shower has more nozzles and gadgets in it than I have ever seen in a shower. It's all so foreign, and in a moment of levity, I launch myself onto the bed, landing face first in the feathery pillows.

A holographic interface pops up in front of me. _"Good evening, Kurt Hummel,"_ says a smooth synthetic voice. _"Your bed is equipped with the latest active materials to make your stay more comfortable. You may select your preferred sleeping features with your hands. You seem rather tense; would you like a massage?"_

I giggle (which I've done maybe _never_ in my entire life) because I just can't help it. They're providing me with all this luxury—awesome gadgets, decadent foods, beautiful clothing, a rich lifestyle.

And in return, all I have to do is die horribly.

If I were in my right mind, a thought like that might bring me back to reality. But—as I answer _yes_ to the bed's question with a gesture of the hand, and waves of pressure and heat begin kneading my muscles—I can't really bring myself to care.

Besides, I might as well enjoy everything the Capitol has to offer while I still can.

* * *

**A/N:** Next chapter we've got some more interaction between Kurt and Blaine, so my editor and I will start working on it as soon as possible. Due to the fact that school has started up again, though, I've decided to change my 'a new chapter every week' rule to 'a new chapter every two weeks.' It'll just be easier for me to edit future chapters and get them out on schedule, you know? They'll still come out on Saturdays, so I hope that's okay!

Oh yeah, and I've been thinking of moving this story over to AO3 (Archive of Our Own). If I did, would you guys continue to follow it? If not, I'm _willing_ to post to both sites (and I say that with much hesitation), but I'd really rather keep it all on one. So please, please, please let me know!

**Fun Fact:** When I first started writing this (which was actually a couple years ago), this was the chapter that I almost gave up on the story. The storyline was too similar to the HG books, I couldn't figure out how the Glee characters could fit in to the story, and it was basically just a huge mess. Luckily, though, I waited a while before continuing to write, and as the show continued, I had more characters to work with, and I came up with better ideas for where to take this. Now, I have the story perfectly planned out, and it's just a matter of editing and posting it. :)


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